She rushed past room after room, peering in at useless dead ends. Another shot rang out a half-second after she rounded a rightward corner at the end of the hallway. Sima flinched, crying out in shock at the ping-ping-thunk of a ricochet too close for comfort. Red steel doors at the end teased her with hope.
Leaning into her stride, Sima turned her left shoulder forward, not caring how much the approaching impact hurt as long as the door opened. She had only seconds before the armed Scather came around the corner behind her and had a clear shot, and she doubted he’d miss. Diving into an opening on the side might protect her from the immediate bullet, but a dead end room would mean certain death.
Sima crashed into the red door, bashing it open to reveal a stairwell. Wasting no time on happiness, she leapt ahead, taking the steps two at a time. She gripped the railing at the top, hurling herself around the switchback right as the onrushing mass of Scathers came into view out in the hall. At the top of the second landing, she flung herself at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. After ramming it twice to no success, she kept going up.
The second story door also refused to budge.
“No!” she yelled, and kicked the push bar, the hollow clank echoing in the stairwell. “Damn!”
Angry shouts continued in the stairs, drawing nearer.
She darted around two more switchbacks to the third floor, which had no door at all. Most of the walls on that level had disintegrated, leaving it a giant open area full of columns. Her heart sank at the total lack of cover. An instant before she decided to keep going up, a glimmer of metal caught her eye from a fire escape outside. Deciding in that split second to go for it, she bolted into the room.
Fragments of wall, hunks of drop ceiling foam, and empty bottles scattered away from her feet as Sima sprinted across the vast openness of a destroyed hotel. She jumped past a curtain of tattered plastic tarps out the window onto a suspended deck that likely hadn’t been touched in decades. Metal creaked and groaned under her, but held her weight despite all the bouncing. The big Scather appeared out in the room and leveled his handgun off at her. With a yelp, she dove flat on her chest upon the steel gridding fast enough that he didn’t bother taking the shot.
Gangers roared and cheered—chasing a ‘murder ball’ is exactly what they’d wanted of her, though she’d started the game early. The rapid clomping of many boots drew nearer upon the debris-strewn floor.
Sima crawled to the end of the fire escape and slithered onto the steps down. She got her feet under her about halfway to the next landing and ran, shrieking as bullets glanced off the steel around her, setting off sprays of sparks. Metal objects whistled by, thrown knives or other pointy things she didn’t dare look at.
At the second story, she decided to leap straight off the end of the fire escape, aiming for the top of an ORC bin. The plastic lid absorbed her impact and bounced her a little back into the air. She landed on the pavement, arms flailing, but kept her balance and dashed out into the street.
Four cross-streets later, she threw the knife aside so she wouldn’t be arrested for having it. Her legs quit on her not long after, but she refused to stop. Though she couldn’t run anymore, she managed a wobbly walking pace, terrified she might have only seconds left before her head exploded. Nalas hadn’t given her any indication of what her time limit was, only that she had one. Blacking out for who knows how long, plus being thrown in a pit had both been unnecessary and potentially fatal diversions.
Sick to her stomach, Sima wanted only to curl up somewhere and cry for a parent she never really had, but that wouldn’t accomplish a damn thing except make her miserable for the last few moments of her life—until the choker went off.
Another turn brought her back to a street with pedestrian traffic. She forced herself to fall in with the people around her at an unassuming stride. Her forehead ached from where she’d mashed that Scather’s nose in. A few wipes with her hand cleared some blood away. Sima huddled forward and pulled her hood up, trying to hide any blood or bruises that might attract unwanted attention.
Soon, she entered a familiar area packed with the poor, as well as criminals and lowlifes. She only had a little way to go before reaching Magdalena’s. Still, the poor had actual social standing, being Citizens rather than Outcasts. They mostly made an honest living at legal employment. Almost no one would hire Outcasts for legit jobs, except trash cleanup or handling dangerous materials, or doing tasks no Citizen would dare touch.
While the next few streets she needed to traverse would likely not hold the sort of gang punks who’d spontaneously attack her, they had other dangers: thieves, dealers, and pimps mostly. Well, perhaps not pimps. Not this close to Magdalena’s. Rumor had it that she arranged for pimps to disappear if they worked too close to her front door. Other rumors said she did more than ‘arrange’ their deaths, having a more hands (or claws) on approach.
Sima clutched the precious box tight in her tunic pocket. The holocom the EGSF officer gave her brushed her knuckle. That ‘Progenitor’ thing couldn’t be as terrifying as winding up in a Scather’s pit. Still, she didn’t quite trust it. Maybe she’d talk to Magdalena about becoming a prostitute. Even that didn’t scare her as much as a murderous gang or a bomb locked around her throat.
With all her heart, she wished she’d never talked to Nalas and wound up in this predicament. But wishes were for children, and at sixteen, she’d left childhood way behind.
Sima smirked, thinking about cooking for herself, doing her own laundry, making sure she got to school on time, and living with a mother who barely even looked at her.
I left childhood behind at like seven.
People in tunics and ponchos eyed her warily as she navigated dirt streets packed with merchant stalls, traders, and shifty-eyed men. Poor Citizens kept their eyes down and hurried along. Anyone who made eye contact with her either wanted to sell something or had darker intentions. She did her best to keep her gaze on the ground like any other innocent person, though did peer up every so often to check for EGSF. She’d gotten past the worst part, the ‘nicer’ areas where she usually begged. EGSF didn’t come out this close to the demolition zone often, at least not unless a specific event attracted them.
Her stomach twisted up in mixed emotions when she came within sight of Magdalena’s. The brothel occupied the lowest four floors of a bombed-out looking high-rise. Little of the front wall remained for at least ten stories, allowing wind and prying eyes easy access to the interior. Gaudy folding barricades of red and gold blocked off much of the second, third, and fourth floors. Higher than that, the place looked deserted.
An open courtyard in front of the building held a ring of sofas against the crumbling walls, as well as a bar counter selling alcoholic drinks to anyone willing to overpay. The décor clashed in a bizarre mixture of modern day and an aesthetic she’d heard described as ‘Old West.’ She couldn’t understand why a society that routinely explored space, having created settlements on the moon and Mars, would bother with the styles of centuries ago.
Ignoring the stares of men lounging about and drinking, Sima hurried across the courtyard toward the gaping maw of the ground-level rooms. Lacy red bras and women’s underthings dangled from rebar struts jutting from the broken edge overhead. Above it, a holographic sign displayed the words ‘Magdalena’s Parlor.’ She leaned around the undergarments and stepped into the shade of the hanging concrete slab that comprised the second story floor.
The interior lobby had fancier divans and sofas. Women, girls, and two boys about her age sat around waiting for clients. Most dressed in little beyond their decorative underthings and a handful even bared their breasts. One blonde girl stretched out on a pink divan wore a lacy lavender bra that clearly held nothing but air, frilly panties, and thigh-high lavender stockings. A ring of purple silk roses adorned her left ankle. Sima gawked in horror at the small prostitute, who couldn’t have been older than thirteen. The child waved a dark red folding fan at her face, tossing her hair about while s
miling at Sima as if inviting her closer for a good time.
Another girl to the right appeared a little older, but still younger than Sima. The rest ranged in age from late teens to their early forties. A few she even recognized, having seen them begging a while back, but none so familiar she knew their names.
“Can I help you, sugar?” asked a woman with red curls and an overly elaborate dress, standing behind a counter at the back of the room.
Sima pulled her gaze off the too-young blonde, a bizarre sense of rage welling up inside her. She fumed at a society that could allow such a thing, at the sort of men who’d hire a prostitute that young, and the people running this place who’d take advantage of her. Her ambivalence toward Magdalena melted into a quiet hatred. Again, she glanced over at the blonde, barely covered in small, frilly underthings. The girl’s look of ease at her situation suggested she’d been here long enough to have no trace of innocence left.
A hollow emptiness weighed Sima’s heart, as though she stared at a dead girl who continued to move around.
“Sugar?” asked the redhead. “Are you okay?”
No. Sima swallowed, again becoming acutely aware of the metal around her neck. She snapped out of her guilty fugue and approached the counter. The woman’s dress had flickering lights arranged around its Old West stylings. Eye rings holding the cord cinching her black lace corset all lit up purple. Glowing gems along the decorative sleeves likely served the same function as the white square at the end of her tunic, controls for a built-in Omnicomputer. Her puffy shoulders and tiered skirt had a deep red color, like rose petals, the fabric glowing in the castoff light from a holo-terminal on the desk that displayed a list of rooms, timers, and girls’ names.
“You here to forget stuff for a while? I can set you up with Flora if you like. Noticed you looking at her,” said the woman. “She’s never worked with a girl before, but she’s a fast learner. Of course, she’s a premium fare: only 300 glint per hour.”
The too-young blonde winked at Sima.
She cringed inside, and shook her head. “No, thanks. I need to see Magdalena.”
“Oh, Mag doesn’t work directly with clients anymore. If you can’t afford Flora, what about Dawn?” The redhead gestured at a woman in her later twenties with pale skin and black hair. She can take care of you for fifty. Or do you fancy a boy?”
Sima grabbed the counter and leaned up on tiptoe. “I’m not here for that. I need to see Magdalena.” She lifted her head and tapped the choker. “It’s urgent. I’m delivering.”
“Oh!” The redhead’s green eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood.” She moved to the far right side of the counter and gestured at a hallway lined with fading wallpaper, white with gold fleur-de-lis. “Go down there to the last door.”
Sima did her best not to cry as she rounded the corner and headed into the dim hallway. At least two (probably four) of those prostitutes had no business being there. How could the EGSF allow girls that young to do this? How could any reasonable adult stand idly by and not do something about that? Leaving young Outcasts to fend for themselves in the streets was bad enough, but prostitution? Every breath of air she drew in this place tasted like the death of innocence.
The corridor went past six doors on either side before hitting a right turn. The second section ended at a pair of ornate double doors with four men standing two per side, one pale, two Middle Eastern, one African. Three pulled tunics aside to reveal handguns on their belts, while the larger of the Middle Eastern guys pointed a submachine gun somewhat in her direction.
Sima stopped short, raising her hands.
“Private area. Get lost,” said the guy with weapon trained on her.
“I’ve got a delivery for Magdalena.” Again, she tapped the choker.
The African man stepped forward, waving at the others to calm down. When he got close enough, he put a finger under her chin, lifting her head. Despite his being huge, armed, and likely willing to kill anyone who pissed him off, Sima felt paradoxically safer in his presence after her run in with the Scathers. She entertained a momentary daydream of him machine-gunning down that pack of thugs who had been chasing her. Fear must’ve continued leaking from her eyes, as the guy gave her a sympathetic sigh.
“Looks fine,” said the guy. He put a hand to her back and guided her over to the door.
“Let’s see the package,” said Submachine Gun Man.
Sima withdrew the brick-sized box from her pocket, but didn’t let go of it.
“Give it a little shake,” said the man.
She did, and it rattled like a tin full of tiny beads.
“All right.” He lowered the submachine gun and opened the door for her. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“I won’t. Trust me, I wanna get out of here as fast as I can.” She managed a weak smile and stepped past the door.
Magdalena’s office looked like something lifted out of many centuries ago. Faux oil lamps, paintings on the dark wooden walls, the style of chairs and tables, even the curtains around a huge four-poster bed in the back. A tall, ghostly-pale woman with fluffy black hair sat behind a huge desk littered with holocoms, small computer components, and a terminal display. She wore an elaborate shoulder-baring old-timey dress of dark violet, accented here and there with black fabric roses. The cord cinching her ebony corset glowed pale lavender.
The breath caught in Sima’s chest when the woman lifted her head and made eye contact. Striking violet eyes with glowing irises fixated on her. Other than the outlandish color (and luminosity) they looked more human than Sima had expected. The woman’s arms, however, were metal. Dark, burnished steel approximated the contours of delicate femininity, but ended in razor-sharp claws so thin they appeared as likely to snap as leave horrible wounds. A few subtle lines in the woman’s face and down the side of her neck suggested the skin might be artificial, or at least heavily infused with augmentation. The desk blocked any view of the woman below the waist, so Sima couldn’t tell if the rumor about her eight-legged metal spider body had any truth.
At the corner, a huge, square bottle held a few inches of dark brown liquid, probably booze.
“Hello, girl,” said Magdalena, in a voice far more normal than fit her appearance. “You must have something for me if you’re standing here.”
“Yes.” She crept up to the desk, holding out the box. “This is from Nalas.”
“Ahh, yes. Thank you.” Magdalena’s fingers shrank from nine-inch tapered points to human-length with a faintly audible whirr, and clicked against the metal box as she clasped it. “I hope you didn’t have too much trouble with this. What has frightened you so?”
Sima gulped.
“Oh, girl.” Magdalena set the box down on the desk. “I can see your heart racing, all the blood rushing to your face, and how fast you’re breathing. Something happened. Do you want to talk about it?”
Hands clasped in front of her, Sima looked down. “Well… I’m a little nervous about having a bomb locked around my throat. And the Scathers almost killed me.”
Magdalena’s expression darkened. “I’ve told that man how I felt about those things…” She pointed at the choker. “Excuse me a moment.” She got a far-off look in her glowing eyes.
Patient, Sima stood there in silence.
“Hello, Nalas,” said Magdalena to thin air. “Your courier has arrived. I couldn’t help but notice you gave her one of those necklaces.” She paused a moment. “I’m aware of your concerns, but you know how I feel about that.”
Sima figured the woman had some kind of communicator in her head. Normally, when someone placed a holocom call, a digital ‘ghost’ of the other person would appear to facilitate a face-to-face conversation. Given the state of the surrounding building, it seemed unlikely any functional trace of the holo-net remained nearby. She wanted to back away as Magdalena launched into a tirade about how angry it made her watching young ladies be put at needless risk. The idea that an explosive choker around her neck pushed this
woman to such a state of rage, the same woman who employed too-young prostitutes, left her speechless. Though she entertained the idea of saying something like if she wanted to protect young people, she shouldn’t force them to have sex with strangers for money, Sima decided against ticking off a woman who could possibly turn her into thinly sliced Outcast with a single swipe of her hand.
The rant ended with Magdalena’s clipped, “See that you do.” Her gaze once more focused on Sima. “Do not fear the detonator. I’ve assured him the product is intact. Your life is no longer at risk, though I suggest you return to him soon to be rid of it and collect your fee.”
“Thank you.” Sima took a step back.
“You have such soulful eyes,” said Magdalena. “I sense you’ve experienced much pain in your short life. It’d take a little scrubbing, but I could certainly make room for you here if you’re tired of being on the street. Alas, I also get the feeling you’ve got a few misconceptions about what we do here.”
Sima couldn’t get the image of Flora out of her head. That girl remained a child young enough to cause feelings of jealousy in regard to begging. She couldn’t process how someone that age would willingly subject herself to what went on here. Doubt crept in that perhaps she placed too much significance on sex, trying to wait for the boy she’d want to be with for the rest of her life. Perhaps the rest of the world had an entirely different view. Magdalena had become angry at Nalas for risking Sima’s life with a bomb, yet paying a child to entertain grown men somehow didn’t bother this woman. The contradiction short-circuited her brain.
“Well, it looks like you’ve got a lot to think about.” Magdalena rose from her chair without a sound and glided around her desk. The elaborate purple gown with black underpinnings concealed her legs, but her motion and appearance looked completely human. She had two legs, though whether metal or flesh Sima couldn’t tell. “I will let Clare know she can send you back to see me if you change your mind.”
Out of Sight (Progenitor Book 1) Page 8
